


mysterons

by sharkattax



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkattax/pseuds/sharkattax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>roman godfrey versus the world, peter, and most importantly, himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i fucking suck at updating multi-chapter stories, but i'll try my damnedest. promise.

“Lucid dreaming,” announced Roman apropos of nothing, throwing a plastic-wrapped sandwich in Peter’s lap. Peter had heard the car up on the road, but brushed it off as another middle-aged man in his mid-life crisis car driving nowhere on a perfect Sunday.

“Excuse me?” 

“Lucid. Dreaming.” He lit up a cigarette and sat down on the edge of the tumble-dryer in the front yard. 

“Lucid dreaming,” Peter replied, one eye open and giving the sandwich a once-over and a perfunctory nod of thanks. The sun shone down heavy and bright even through the canopy of the woods, and made him squint. “Uh, why?”

“I didn’t want it. It’s pastrami, I thought you’d like it.”

“I meant the, uh. The thing you kept repeating. But I do like pastrami, thank you.” Peter cracked his neck and sat up, hammock creaking in protest. He rubbed his eyes clear.

“You know anything about it? I mean, you know. Because. Of reasons.” 

“ _Reasons_.”

“You know.” Roman scratched behind his ear, careful not to burn himself. He shrugged. “ _Gypsy_ reasons.”

 

 

 

Peter snorted, unwrapping his sandwich. He didn’t think the Godfreys even _owned_ plastic wrap. _Guess you learn something new every day, huh_. 

“Wouldn’t you be better off asking my cousin?” he asked, wiping precursory crumbs off his shirt. 

“Yeah, I don’t wanna do that.”

“ _Gypsy reasons_?” 

“Fuck off,” Roman sneered, inhaling a lung of smoke. “No, I mean. She gives me the _heebie-jeebies_. Too cryptic. Freaks me out.”

“Understandable.” He took an enormous and unceremonious bite of meat and bread; cheese and greens and mustard spilling out over his hand. Roman bit his lip and made a point of not staring while Peter licked his fingers clean. “Uh, I guess not. I’ve never done it, except, you know. That one time with you, or whatever.” He took another bite, cradling his food this time. 

“At the factory.”

“Yeah.” Peter swallowed and cleared his throat. “What’s up? Eat some bad cheese before bedtime or something?” He gestured the remains of his lunch, cracked an easy grin. “That why you didn’t want this?”

“The sandwich is fine. Why, you don’t feel so good? Should I get you some grass to eat?” 

“Fuck off.” He stretched out, still smiling; shook his leg out in Roman’s direction in a lazy kick. Roman put out his stub and stood up. 

“See you at school, or whatever. You want a ride tomorrow?”

“Nah, I’ll walk. ‘s nice out all week, I heard.”

“All right.” Roman hesitated briefly, fingers twitching at his side. He wanted to stay, but it felt cheap. “See you.” Peter shrugged, and settled back down to nap.

 

 

 

 

Roman arched his back and walked his toes along the shelf above the bath, reaching for a  plastic razor. He’d never bothered with the fancy triple-blade aloe conditioned kind; all he ever wanted was the one sliver of steel, after all. He sunk back into the tub, holding the thing with both hands, lips pursed. Briefly, he thought of trying to hack through the thick brown thatch of hair at Peter’s throat. _Ha, like a razor would cut through it, you’d need a fucking lawnmower._ He sniffed, smirked at his own bad humour. _I’d ride him like a god-damned lawnmower. God fucking damn it._ He licked his lips, and dragged his tongue over the blade, paper thin in his rough fingers. Shit, you could feed him a mountain of coke and it’d never feel this good. He cursed under his breath and slipped his head underwater. 

 

Eyes closed, breath held and teeth bloody, Roman meditated on Peter’s throat, the potential curvature, the warmth. The pulse of rich arteries, salty sweet; running into his belly, through his guts, right down into his god-damned dick. 

 

He dropped the razor and sloshed back upright, a thin line of red drooling out the corner of his mouth. Roman licked his lips and fumbled for the pack of cigarettes on the shelf. 

 

_God fucking damn it_.

 

 

 

 

 

He came hot and heavy like a low moon on a summer night; breath held tighter than your last underwater, lips bitten bare and bleeding. Swallowed down a name he couldn’t say out loud, swallowed it down in iron and cells. He’s falling a-fucking-part and it hurt more than anything he could ever inflict upon himself. He wanted to shed his skin like Peter, didn’t fucking care what he turned into in the end, but it had to be cleaner, _purer_ , than the sack of shit he was now. Maybe he’d be a wolf too; he could bare his throat and the black shadow with the haunting yellow eyes would hump the shit out of him and everything would be left unspoken, words needless. Roman was never particularly good with words. Money spoke better than words, by his understanding.

 

A boy could dream, 

 

and hope the sentiment travelled along a silent thread in the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something nice, before the fall.

The leaves were fresh and crisp, and crunched underfoot, under four feet even. Peter’s nose was buried in a pile of them, following the trail of sweat and fear-stink to a rabbit-hole near the ditch. Roman smoked on the roof of an orphaned car, a shiver running across his skin as the sun dropped and the dew point hit. He pulled his sleeves down over his wrists and breathed white rings into the chill. 

 

Out of sight there was a tiny squeal, the rustling of branches. He figured somebody got their dinner. Peter trotted back to the yard to eat in peace. _Peace for the dog, maybe_. Roman had to put up with the snapping and slopping of fresh hot meat, vapour rising from heart-hot blood. He snorted at his own terrible idea; as if Peter would share, as if he’d be fucked-up enough to eat animal blood? 

 

“Hey, Peter?”

Peter was crushing bones in his teeth. He licked his chops and looked up. 

“Come here?” Roman patted the side of the car, the noise far quieter than he expected. “Uh. Here, boy?” 

Peter snorted and cracked the rabbit’s skull, but his tail wagged slowly, like a shallow heartbeat. 

“Sorry. I didn’t know you weren’t finished.” Roman folded his arms. “I’m talking to a fucking dog,” he grumbled, scrubbing his face with his free hand, “yeesh.” Peter lapped up the grey matter pooling on the dirt. “Easier to talk to a dog. Shee-it. How fucking _embarrassing_.” He put out his cigarette and slid off the car bonnet in one easy movement. “Man’s best friend, huh.” Peter licked his nose clean and sat down. Roman crouched next to him, reaching out tentatively with a broad, pale hand. “I wouldn’t know about that. You’re my best friend, though. Right?” The wolf was so big he could almost look over the top of Roman’s head, and he put a slim but heavy paw on Roman’s knee. “Sorry you can’t go for a real run. Your mom would have my balls.”

 

 

 

 

Roman slept on the couch in the trailer like always, or now what felt like always. His feet stuck a good half-yard off the end of it, hooked over the arm rest, but he imagined he wouldn’t fare any better in Peter’s bed either; he’d seen the cot, and was surprised even Peter fit in it. He watched Animal Planet until he drifted off, balancing the TV remote on Peter’s back. (According to Lynda, it was that or the Weather Channel, and there were only so many climate reports he could watch _just_ to keep the dog settled.) 

 

During a _Wild West Alaska_ re-run he slipped into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep, though he would have hoped to jump into Peter’s and chased rabbits down holes than tumble into his own rabbit holes full of cannibalistic snakes and endless blood. He’d drifted off with his hand on Peter’s belly, scratching that just-so spot near his thigh that made all dogs twitch and kick with dopey delight. 

 

Naturally, that meant he woke up with a dead arm and blue-tinged fingers tucked tight in a hairy fold of skin that would be comically close to Peter’s dick, if Roman were capable of finding it even the slightest bit funny. Peter was curled up on the floor, breathing slow and easy, face buried in his armpit to keep out the early morning sun. Roman sighed deep in his chest and tried to pry his digits away, the tingle and burn of fresh circulation making it all the more difficult to concentrate on the... _right things_.

“I’m awake,” Peter said quietly, muffled by his arm. 

“Oh,” replied Roman, staring at the coffee table. “I... you were. Well, you weren’t...” He stumbled over his words, brain foggy with sleep still. Peter laughed softly and stretched out, toes cracking as he curled and flexed them. 

“It’s okay, I get it.” He sat up and pulled the blanket from Roman’s makeshift bed around his shoulders. “What time is it?”

“Uh, morning. I guess.” Roman cracked his neck and propped himself up on his elbows to look at the little clock on the stove. “Ten-something.”

“I”m fucking _hungry_. Gonna make breakfast.” Peter shuffled to the kitchenette, rubbing his eyes clear. He gave a slight nod of reverence to Nicolai’s picture as he passed it, and Roman wondered if he was offering to cook the spirit of his grandpa breakfast. Maybe that was a _gypsy thing_. Hell if he knew. He’d ask later, maybe. Peter leaned over the counter, all messy hair and easy grin.  “Eggs. You like eggs? I’m making eggs. Like, a whole fucking carton of eggs.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potentially abandoning this, sorry :c i'm terrible with stories over a few hundred words, my bad. thanx for reading anyways, though! here's the last of it for the foreseeable future, at least.

If only everything were so goddamn simple as eggs and cigarettes and skipping school to swim naked in the Wendells’ pond. School could wait for the autumn snap; those were the last gorgeous days of summer. Things got complicated in the cold, ached in the rain. But it rolled through, nonetheless. Not even Roman Godfrey, with all his money, could stop the changing of the seasons.

 

Roman slept through a dozen bad spells; _literally spells_ , he was convinced, _I’m fucking cursed_. He rolled over and reached under his pillows for his cache of stolen intimates. Rich kids liked to steal, Roman liked to steal that little bit harder. He pulled out his newest acquisition and bit his lip until it bled, easing back into the duck-down cushions and weighty Egyptian cotton sheets, jerked off slow and sloppy into the scrubby briefs fisted loosely in his hand. 

 

_I want you so fucking bad._

 

_I want you to be my best friend,_

 

_I want you,_

 

_I want you to love me._

 

_I want to love me_

 

_I want_

 

 

 

 

 

The wind rattled the glass-panes in the old Godfrey house, howling in the steeples. Roman washed Shelley’s feet in a big old bucket they kept purely for the task. He cleaned between her toes and gently scrubbed her heels, trimmed her nails, patted everything dry. This was their ritual of kindness; Roman would wash Shelley’s feet and Shelley would wash the weight from Roman’s heart, just for a moment. She gave him a sincere smile, all teeth and braces. Shelley cast a long shadow, but Roman felt protected by it. He towelled between her crooked toes and set them back upon the floor. 

“Go pick which socks you like,” he said softly, head tilted towards a chest of drawers across the room, “I’ll put ‘em on for you.” 


End file.
